Damien, Forever (An Art of Sinners Novel)

by Tempest Phan

  ***

  How long had it been since he’d walked out the door, out of my life again? Thirty minutes? An hour? It already felt like an eternity. In my hand, l held a locket, that locket from long ago. I’d found it on his bed after he’d left. It was still wrapped in a silver box, slightly aged by time. I’d opened it and found a gift receipt dated from when we were seventeen. I knew what I’d find inside. How could I forget? A silly trinket, a trinket in which the words, I love you were written in a hundred languages. And my initials had been engraved on the back. Not his, just mine. I understood right away what this was to mean. After having held onto my heart for as long as I could remember, he was letting me go. This was the end.

  My phone vibrated.

  DAMIEN:

  Bella baby . . . I’m sorry.

  My hands shook. I couldn’t text him what I really wanted him to hear, terrified after years of rejection, after his latest renunciation. And what I really wanted to shout was this: I would leave my life if you just said it, my Damien James. I would leave it all, just to be with you.

  ME:

  Damien . . . You don’t have to do this alone. You don’t have to face your dark alone. And we could be happy, too . . .

  But he didn’t answer. He never would again, after that.

  ***

  I was at the kitchen table when Lukas came home. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair slightly windblown. He’d loosened his tie and sighed deeply as he closed the door behind him. His eyes caught mine, which were likely still red and puffy from hours of crying over Damien.

  He made his way to me. “Hey love, what is it? Where’s Damien?”

  The tears began to fall again and I couldn’t stop them. Lukas drew me in his arms, kissing my hair, murmuring reassurances softly, bathing me with tenderness and love. It made me feel worse. I’d betrayed both of them by never letting myself get over Damien.

  Finally, I let out between sobs, “He’s gone. He’s gone for good this time.”

  I felt Lukas tense, but his voice was calm and soothing, “It will be ok, love. I’m here for you.”

  I kept crying. Lukas swept me up to cradle me in his arms and walked to the bedroom. He gently set me down on the bed. I heard the sound of clothes rustling and then felt his weight on the bed as he laid down next to me and drew me against him. I fell asleep in his arms, completely wiped out by the day’s emotional roller coaster.

  When I awoke, it took me a minute to take in my surroundings, to recognize the man gently kissing me. Damien? No, not the love of my life. This one was blond, grey eyes looking at me intently.

  “Hello Mirabella.”

  “Lukas.” A whisper.

  “You ok?”

  I nodded.

  “Will you talk to me about it? You’ve been shutting me out and it terrifies me.”

  I looked at him, swept the stray blond locks away from his brow.

  “I love you,” he said with finality.

  Was this the first time he’d said it? I couldn’t remember. Damien had admitted his never-ending love for me that night at the lake, after sweeping me off to dance in the rain with him.

  Let’s dance just you and I, under this darkened sky . . . The world will have to wait.

  My heart ached at the memory.

  I just stared at Lukas.

  “I love you, Bella.” He paused. Was he waiting for me to say something? He continued, “I think I’ve loved you from the moment you opened the door at your father’s party. So seeing you like this bloody scares me. I feel like I’m losing you. Will you talk to me?”

  “Thank you for loving me.” My tears fell again as his lips slashed into a grim line. And all I could think to say was, “He’s gone. I deserved it. He should never have been here.”

  “Shhhhh, love. It will be ok. I’m here.” I looked up and saw the deep furrow in his brow, worry gathering in his stormy eyes.

  His gentle care tore my heart apart. I hated myself for what I’d done to Damien, for what I was doing with Lukas. Settling when I probably could never love him. I couldn’t go on like that. But when the words came, they sounded all wrong.

  “He’s gone, Lukas. And I don’t know how I will live without him.”

  He sucked in a breath, his arms grew stone cold, but he did not pull away.

  Silence, but still he held me.

  I closed my eyes and started to cry as he held me more tightly against his heart. What had I done to deserve such steadfastness?

  I cried in his arms, until the tears stopped coming, what seemed to be hours later.

  What had I done to deserve such steadfastness?

  The tears fell silently again. I did not deserve it.

  I couldn’t continue doing this to Lukas, to me. To Damien. I pushed myself up and looked down at him. The grey in his eyes was shattered still, hardening the resolve in my heart, as I proceeded to break his.

  It wasn’t him.

  It was me.

  Only me.

  That old coward’s way out, although in this instance, it was all true.

  He said nothing, just kept looking at me as the light in his eyes, already dimmed, died out. Finally, he murmured, “Bella. You can lie to yourself all you want, love. It is me, because I’m not him. Even now, I can see it in your eyes, I can. Of course you’re not over him.”

  Those were the last words we’d exchanged. He’d stood up, grabbed his keys, and left, not even slamming the front door on his way out.

  That was the wretched way in which I said my goodbyes to Lukas Stone, and over the course of the next few days, quietly walked out of his world. He did not try to stop me. In fact, he never returned, just let me pack up and walk out and close the door on our relationship. He never once called me or tried to reopen that door. And I was ok with that.

  Because life had to go on.

  And Damien had once again dropped off the face of the planet. Text after text after email went unanswered.

  At first, I was angry at him for doing to me what he’d promised he’d never do. And then I was angry at myself, angry that he still held such a strange power over me, angry that I let him leave in his broken state. But most of all, I was terrified. I knew too well what could happen to broken souls. Was he safe? At night, I said a prayer for him, trying to envelop him in my illusionary safety, hoping against all hopes that he was safe. Safe and happy. Without me.

  Damien

  Six months had passed since I said goodbye to her, blocked her number, and cut off all contact just so I wouldn’t continue to fuck with her life. In return, I’d sold my soul for the band. Then, suddenly, we were blowing up. I don’t know how it happened, but just like that, we’d become the most searched-for band on YouTube, Spotify, you name it. So much so that a major label had signed us to a multi-record deal, going as far as re-releasing the shitty demo we’d uploaded to Bandcamp a few years ago, the shitty demo that had led to this sudden groundswell.

  It should have felt amazing but it didn’t.

  I should have felt vindicated but I didn’t.

  The dark gaps I thought success might fill inside of my empty soul were as big as ever, perhaps deeper still. Even as we sat here, in some swanky office with some swanky record exec, working out the details for our next US tour, it all felt so anticlimactic.

  Because I couldn’t share it with her.

  How could I, now that she had him.

  The boys and I walked out into the sun, with Crash and Luce whooping at the top of their lungs. Syn looked over at me, smirking a bit as he pulled out a cigarette and tucked it between his lips. He could hide it all he wanted. I knew this meant as much—no, more—to him than to any of us.

  He leaned over to light my own cigarette.

  I nodded my thanks.

  “This calls for a celebration, my man.” His lips curled into a sardonic smile.

  Later, much later, when I finally came to, I noticed the blonde and the brunette in my bed, noticed the empty bottles of Smirnoff littering the carpet, the half-snor
ted lines of coke on my nightstand, the opened condom wrappers all over the bed and floor. I shut my eyes again as the room spun around me, as an entire marching band slammed through my skull, and I laid back down.

  The bed shifted slightly as the blonde moved and sighed softly in her sleep. It sounded all wrong.

  I ran my hands over my face.

  How did I end up here?

  I thought of Bella, of Lukas, and how I’d miscalculated it all. I’d sent the love of my life into another man’s arms while I was taking my own damn sweet time getting my shit in order.

  Now, I’d lost her.

  Fame and fortune had always been the means to an end. And the end had fucking changed on me.

  Was this the dream I’d set out to fulfill?

  ***

  Bella

  The voice on the radio pulled me out of my reverie. And the song, that familiar song that once warmed me to my very core when he’d sung it to me—it was my song. His voice. On the radio.

  For you.

  For me. The lyrics he’d written for my eighteenth birthday . . . but the melody that accompanied it was not the one he’d made up long ago. No, it was something else. Gentle, and bittersweet, and heartbreaking. Both foreign and familiar. It spoke to me but I couldn’t quite place it.

  And his voice . . . Deep and intense and full of raw longing.

  I couldn’t breathe. All the feelings came rushing back.

  Over a year had passed since he’d walked out of Lukas’s bungalow.

  Since I had walked out of Lukas’s bungalow.

  He’d made it. I looked him up on Instagram, and there he was. In a limo, wearing an impeccably cut black suit, his fitted crisp white shirt completely unbuttoned, surrounded by gorgeous women, many raven-haired, as they all laughed and sang, the ones closest to him doing everything they could to touch him, hang on to him. My heart dropped.

  He looked the same and yet different. Eyes glassy, forever smudged with black eyeliner, rocking out in that video, looking slightly out of control, looking clearly high. On the last frame, he stared straight at the camera, and I lost my breath at how the look in his eyes, even when not aimed at me, could still see right into my soul and drag me to him.

  I also noticed a new tat on his perfect face, a small teardrop falling right below the corner of his right eye. And his hair had grown since I’d last seen him, those longer strands on top still falling over his brow in a mess, the sides once again near shaven. His entire neck appeared to be tattooed as well, black and grey cherry blossoms covering every single inch of his skin, at odds with the immaculate starched collar.

  I googled him, and hundreds of pictures of him and what appeared to be his band popped up. In all of the images, there he was, in the center, usually dressed all in black, in torn, skinny jeans and a sleeveless hoodie, his body dripping with tats. In a few of them, he’d be holding, either against the back of his nape, baseball-bat style, or thrown over a strong shoulder, what I knew without a doubt to be the 1957 Les Paul from all those years ago.

  And in the band overview, their names:

  Damien James—lead vocals, rhythm guitar

  Synister Maur—lead guitar, backup vocals

  Crash—bass guitar

  Lucien Drake—drums

  Damien James.

  My Damien James.

  Echoes from a lifetime ago.

  He’d dropped his last name, going by his middle name instead. It sounded suitably rockstar-ish. I clicked on a link, the video for a song called Wounds.

  There they were, live shots of him and his band, all dressed in dark, ripped clothing, rocking out on the stage in a smoky club, intercut with scenes of him walking in the night.

  My heart clenched and I quickly pressed next. A new video, one apparently titled Cherry Blossoms began to play, with Dame’s face staring straight at me through heavily ringed eyes.

  My baby cries

  And her tears

  Are like falling

  Cherry

  Cherry blossoms, cherry blossoms

  She cries, she cries for me

  But it’s too late, chrysanthemums

  ‘Cause I lie dead

  Lost in my nights

  Faded flower

  My forever

  And it’s all gone . . .

  My cherry blossom . . .

  The despair on his face, in his voice, shattered my heart. I closed the window, not able, not willing to fully comprehend what I was seeing. I turned instead to one of the dozens of interviews. There he was, sitting across from a clearly infatuated reporter from Bang Bang! Magazine.

  “So Damien,” she asked him in her clipped British accent. “Why My Tell-Tale Heart? Was your band name inspired by Poe? Or was it a girl, perhaps!”

  He smiled at her, and I could see her wet her panties. “Yes, you could say we all love the macabre and Poe, of course.”

  “No girl?” she asked while the other three men in the band snickered.

  He laughed. I stopped breathing. “A girl? Yes, I suppose. Isn’t there always a girl and a badly broken heart? Isn’t it how these fucking things work?”

  The reporter laughed and looked to the camera. “There you have it. A girl is, of course, the source of My Tell-Tale Heart’s inspiration.” The other men rolled their eyes, and Damien smirked.

  “All right. You know what time it is now?” she said with an irritating giggle.

  “What time, Eva?” He took a swig from a nearby beer bottle.

  “Time for five questions!” She took out a set of flashcards. “Ready?”

  He just smiled at her, rubbing the corner of his lips before his teeth raked down on his spider bites.

  “All right. Rock or Pop?”

  “Really, sweetheart? Rock, of course.”

  Sweetheart.

  She laughed. “All right then. Boy or girl?”

  “Didn’t we just establish that?” He rubbed his right eye with the heel of his palm, smearing his black liner even more. “And why not both?” He winked at her, a small smile tugging again at his lips.

  “Oooh, Damien James. Interesting. Really.”

  He shrugged before stretching, which made the hem of his sleeveless hoodie hike up. His abs were still carved from perfection. “No. Girl. But hell, why not, right?” He turned to his bandmates and smiled more broadly. More eye rolling, although the one with the impressive hawk smiled back, fist bumping him.

  “Ah. Ok, blonde or brunette?”

  “Brunette.”

  She tucked a stray brown curl behind her ear. I could swear her stupid smile got even bigger. “Home-cooked meal or fancy restaurant?”

  “I always cook for my baby, Eva.”

  Because food is love, Eva.

  She let out a whistle. “Wouldn’t that be nice, now, boys and girls,” she winked at the camera. “All right. Last one. Romantic stroll on the beach or—”

  “Wild night of fucking, Eva. Every. Single. Time.” He’d interrupted her with his voice of shadows and crushed velvet, sex dripping from each word, and her eyes widened as she looked like she had a mini-orgasm. The rest of the band guffawed.

  I stopped the video, breathless.

  Who was this dangerous man? I hardly recognized my sweet boy.

  I blamed the turmoil in my head, in my heart for what I did next.

  I grabbed my phone again, found Damien’s profile. How had I not thought to look him up on Instagram before?

  Follow.

  I was now one of his 6.4 million followers.

  I sent him a DM.

  ME:

  Dame . . . I hope over a year of avoiding me is enough for you . . .

  He’d probably not see this. And if, by some sort of miracle, he did, he’d ignore it just like he’d ignored all of my other attempts at reconnecting.

  The video for a song entitled In My Veins popped up. I clicked on it. He sat at a piano, rain lashing around him, as an ethereal woman in a torn white chiffon dress materialized to stand by his side, her long coil
s of ink black hair falling over her shoulders, down her back, tiara askew, her mascara running down her ghostly pale face, her red lipstick smeared.

  The haunting notes tore at my heart, his voice thick and dark with pain.

  It’s all in vain

  You’re in my veins

  My fucking pain

  It bears our names . . .

  My heart fractured, bleeding tears that had long stopped falling from my eyes.

  Damien

  I never paid attention to my Instagram account, left it to my publicist, but for some reason, the minute she followed me, I saw. I saw because I never managed my account, but I sure as hell stalked hers, even though she never, ever posted anything.

  And then I saw her DM notification pop up. I avoided looking at the message, not wanting to be sucked back into my vicious circle of darkness.

  A text, this one from my P.A., telling me yet again that my mother, newly settled in a world-class facility that boasted the very best therapy my money could buy, was asking about me. And would I ever visit her?

  I didn’t respond. I never did.

  “Damien, come back to bed, sexy,” the brunette purred from the bed.

  “Yes, it’s getting lonely without you.” This from the one whose name was Ling, the one I’d brought back because in my fucked-up head, I could pretend she was Bella.